


all for the love of thee

by braithwaites



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, One Shot Collection, Original Character Death(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 15:04:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13706928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braithwaites/pseuds/braithwaites
Summary: A collection of oneshots on the relationship between Hjalmar an Craite and Nichale Ciarach.





	all for the love of thee

Hjalmar drew the eye. That was an inescapable fact, especially on that night. He was still brimming with pride over the defeat of the ice giant, and as the jarls grew nearer to announcing the new ruler of Skellige, his fervor grew in pitch and in frequency. There were other stories to tell, too. About creatures just as cruel as an ice giant, if not as big. About men as broad as the belly of a ship.

He gestured with both arms, his unlaced tunic baring a chest shot through with ginger hair and scars in equal measure. When he laughed, the sound echoed up into the raised ceiling of the hall and down into Kaer Trolde.

Nichale felt an elbow in his side, which was the only thing capable of getting his attention.

Wilyam was always up for a little good-natured teasing. Of late, Nic had become his favorite victim. There was so much to tease him about, after all.

“How does it feel, little brother?”

“How does what feel?” Nic asked, curling his hands around the bottom of his mug. Beer sloshed close to its lip, warm and untouched. It wasn't as if he didn't like to drink. He loved getting wasted by the stuff. He just couldn't bother drinking when he was otherwise distracted. “What a strange fuckin' question.”

Wilyam chuckled and nudged him again. He was older by five years, but looked to be twice his age, his face weathered from sailing and other exertions. A scar cut through his bottom lip, curling it downward and exposing his strong teeth.

Both his brothers looked the same, like his father, like his mother. Even his sister looked harder than him, with silver streaking through her blonde hair and a hand missing two fingers.

Nichale was the pretty one. They all teased him for that, too.

“How's it feel knowin' that yer not the only one starin' at Hjalmar tonight?” Wilyam passed his tongue over the split in his bottom lip and laughed. “Everyone here looks like they wanna take him 'round back and get a mouthful of the an Craite legacy.”

Tension rose up Nichale's spine like a chill. His jaw twitched, and he held onto his mug even tighter. How was he supposed to answer that question without getting railed for it later on? When the celebration was over and Wilyam was stone cold sober? He'd remember. He always remembered. His mind was a trap that didn't rust, even when it was fully submerged in booze.

Nic arched a brow at him and, rather than making a show of his jealousy, asked, “You, too, then?”

“Why not?” Wilyam shot back before nearly bursting his gut laughing.

The explosion of sound drew Hjalmar's attention toward them, and Nic's heart plummeted down into his belly when their eyes met.

What they had was a known secret. Everyone knew; no one talked about it. Neither of them were any good at hiding, but they tried. They tried, even though they were both bound to fail, so those closest to them did them a favor by looking the other way. It wasn't the best way to live, but at least it was living.

Nic heard tales from the continent, passed around taverns on their shores. Tales of men running from their truth rather than their past. Tales of men dragged from their beds and forced onto their feet with naught but a few orens in their pockets.

While he was lucky enough to avoid such things by being a third son, he couldn't help but worry.

Not that he could think of anything but Hjalmar when the man looked at him. Those eyes were as grey and as blue as the Great Sea, and just as fucking dangerous. And there was still a smile on his face, too, which made everything a thousand times worse.

 _Or better_ , Nic felt, the words swelling in his chest as he stared across the room.

He was still staring at him when the doors slammed open at the back of the hall. This time, the roar they heard wasn't an unruly laugh or a drunken battle cry. The roar was feral in nature, hollow and inhuman, the sort of sound that sends fear right into your veins and evokes an immediate response.

Nic tossed his mug aside and whipped around, the heel of his boot sliding in the frothy upturned beer.

Barreling into the hall was a bear. He tracked its movement, then the movement of others. No, there were three. Three bears with dark brown fur that seemed to absorb the flickering candlelight, their mouths already slick and black with blood.

Wilyam barred an arm in front of Nic before shoving him another step back. “Get yer bow,” he ordered, his voice as sharp and as even as a sword's edge. “Dunno how good it'll be against these things, but...”

He growled when the words didn't come to him.

The first of the bears reared back with a massive paw and slammed into the nearest of the guests, knocking him over onto the ground as easily as one might knock over a child. It ignored him, but the second of them didn't. The second bear tore into his belly, ripping at armor and tunic and flesh to expose his guts as the man screamed in pain.

“Just get yer fuckin' bow!”

Nic wheeled around, his mind pitching in every direction as he tried to remember where he'd put it upon entering. All around them, men and women both were unsheathing the weapons they kept by their sides. Daggers, most. Meant for slicing ham than killing bears. Their swords and hammers – and bows – had been taken upon entering to avoid any rowdiness branching into violence. Of that sort, at least.

They were apples on a branch in the hall, ready to be plucked and bitten into. And he was the most defenseless of them all.

Another scream joined the last, then another as the first guttered and died. Orders were shouted across the hall, none of which were followed. Fathers called their sons' names, the names of their daughters, desperate for some response.

Among it all, Nic could hear Hjalmar let out his own battle cry. The sound was familiar, but out of place. It didn't belong in the middle of a massacre.

Nic vaulted over a table that had been flipped during the first rush of panic, narrowly avoiding a pool of pottage on the other side. The hall was a maelstrom of smells and sounds. Already, every breath smelled of iron, as well as the savory scent of roasting meat turning to something charred as a rack of lamb stood forgotten above the untended fire.

 _Put distance between you and the bears_ , he told himself. _Find Starshot and actually be some fuckin' help around here._

Nichale threw the door open at the end of the hall only to find more of the same. There were no bears, but there was what they left behind. An old woman huddled against one of the hallway's stone walls, clutching a shoulder that was mostly gone, torn open and gushing blood. Not far off, a quiet child.

The sight drew a wave of nausea right through him, forcing his fevered search into a halt for a moment. He swayed in the doorway as he struggled to regain the breath that was stolen from his lungs.

Then, there was another cascade of screaming from inside, and the sound pushed him into action once again, rushing from the hall and into the nearby room where the weapons were kept. More than his bow, Hjalmar needed his sword, and that was kept here, too, as a sign of respect to the jarls and their families.

The room was small and dimly lit, but even without straining his eyes, Nic spotted Starshot leaning against the far wall, alongside his quiver etched with runes and dyed a pale shade of blue. Not far off was Hjalmar's blade.

Nic reached for both, pulling the belt of his quiver over one shoulder and tucking his bow close to his side. In his free hand, he held Hjalmar's sword. He only wished that he could bring others.

When he pushed into the hall again, half of those inside were dead. Half. Family lines were cut short in an instant. Others, left with only the old patriarchs, whose wives were unable to bear more sons. Young men and women stood before or beside their fathers, unwilling to let the bears have them. And all three were still alive.

One was wounded, dragging a back leg through the rushes strewn over the floor and trailing blood.

The fact that someone managed to cut the beast well enough to force it into a limp was impressive, considering most of them were wielding glorified dinner knives rather the weapons they knew like an extension of their own hands.

“Hjalmar!” Nichale cried out, searching those still standing for broad shoulders, a bare chest, and a ginger head. “I have your blade!”

That's when he saw him, coming into view as he rounded one of the room's many pillars and turned towards the sound of Nic's voice. Relief shot through Hjalmar's expression when he realized the bears hadn't gotten to Nic. But there was blood on his face, a jagged cut over the bridge of his nose that bled down the front of his face.

To his right, he heard a roar. One of the other bears, still showing no signs of wear, turned towards Hjalmar with a haunting, hollow growl.

Nic took flight in the very next moment, launching himself onto one of the only tables still standing upright and running the length of it, each breath more ragged than the last. But he reached Hjalmar before the bear, dropping the wrapped hilt of his blade into his hand before hopping down onto the stone floor behind him.

He jumped backwards, leaving only a foot between him and the wall at his back before drawing an arrow from his quiver. Fitting the arrow against his longbow, Nic sucked in a slow breath as he drew his arm back, his vision narrowing in towards the bear approaching them both at lumbering run.

“Fire!” Hjalmar shouted as he twisted out of the way, giving Nic a clear shot at the bear. The arrow was loosed only a moment later, just as soon as the word left Hjalmar's mouth.

As he expected, he had no way of stopping a creature with so thick a hide. His arrow stuck, but impacted the creature very little. It didn't even slow down before it slammed into Hjalmar, knocking him clear off of his feet and onto the ground.

It raised a massive paw, claws glinting black in the firelight, but before it could slam down into Hjalmar's bare chest and crack it open, the dynamic of the fight changed.

With a gesture, the witcher – Geralt of Rivia, white-haired and fierce – lifted the bear from atop Hjalmar with one of his magical signs, sending the beast falling in a mess of furred limbs onto its side. Momentum brought the thing to a stop against one of the overturned tables, and it clambered to its feet soon after, head shaking off the effects of the sigh.

Hjalmar got to his feet, too, aided momentarily by his father.

Again, Nic reached for an arrow. Pulled back his bow.

The bear roared in what could only be understood as frustration as the witcher danced away, his silver sword flashing. Once Geralt stood at a distance from the creature, Nic let go of another arrow. This one his the bear square in the chest... and did little but split fur and hide. His shoulders sank as he watched Hjalmar rush forward with his blade and join the witcher in his assault of the beast.

All around them, the sounds of struggle were coming to a gurgling halt. A dozen men and women remained, at most, and their efforts were slowing between fatigue and grief and helplessness. Even the sight of the witcher joining their fight didn't manage to give them a second wind.

On the far side of the room, Nichale saw a familiar blonde head, bowed against a chest soaked with blood. Just above his chin was a scar, splitting his bottom lip in two and baring strong, bloodied teeth.

Around Wilyam's arm was a band of fabric – two stripes of black and one white against a field of pale blue – tattered from the blow that disarmed him.

Nic felt a burst of anger in his chest, but he didn't know where to aim it.

At the bears? One of them had already been felled by the witcher. The other two were close behind, falling upon him as if they had a chance.

At himself? There was nothing he could have done to stop this from happening.

At whoever opened the fucking doors to begin with? He could do that.

The moment the third bear fell to the ground in a heap, Hjalmar was the first to turn around and face him. Nic caught a glimpse of Crach watching as his son stepped around fallen comrades to join the Ciarach boy with his useless bow.

His face hadn't stopped bleeding. There was more of it now, coursing over his mustache and his beard and into his mouth. Not that he seemed to notice or care.

Hjalmar stopped in front of him with his sword held by his side in a tense, white-knuckled grip.

“Are ye injured?”

Nichale gave his head a slow shake. No matter how badly he wanted to, he couldn't quite meet his eyes. Until Hjalmar grabbed him by his chin and tilted his head back, at least.

“Answer me, Nic.” The concern on Hjalmar's face made grief bubble at the back of his throat. He hadn't been touched by the bears, not in a way that would leave him bleeding on the surface. “Are ye injured?”

All Nic could get out was a roughened gasp of, “Wilyam...”

Hjalmar looked around, though he still held onto Nic's chin. When he spotted the fallen man, ripped open by claws or teeth, his grip softened, and when he turned back around to look into Nic's eyes, his grief was visible in their stormy color of his own.

“Sorry 'bout yer brother,” Hjalmar said. His voice was quiet, stripped of all the joy he'd shared with everyone what felt like hours, days, weeks before. But it had only been minutes since the first of the bears was let into the hall. “He was a good man, Wilyam. Smacked the shite out of a man who tried starting something with Cerys once.”

There were so many stories people could tell about Wilyam, about their father or their mother. The same could be said of Philip, who crafted jewelry sought after from the shores of Skellige and well into the Continent. Brita was worth her salt, too, seeing as she was just as fierce and just as experienced with a blade as Wilyam. It was chance and chance alone that kept her from the hall tonight.

And then there was Nic.

Nic, whose longbow had been crafted in Redania. Nic, who could wield a sword easily enough but chose not to. Nic with his pretty face, who'd only be known through gossip rather than tales. Within their families, he'd always be known as the boy who spread for the would-be king.

“Aye, he was a good man.”

Nichale longed to look into Hjalmar's eyes and tell him, 'It should have been me.'

But that would have done a disservice to Wilyam. That would have implied that their positions could have been exchanged, which was impossible. Nic paled at the idea of standing against one of those bears in melee range, while Wilyam stood firm on the stone floors of the keep and fell.

Hjalmar brushed a lock of blonde hair away from Nic's brow before letting go of a huffed breath that carried the strong scent of beer.

“I'm glad yer not hurt,” he said, honesty ringing in every word. It wasn't like Hjalmar to lie or to play at some half-truth. He was an honest sort, almost to a fault, and Nic loved that about him. The blade at his side finally drooped as he relaxed. “Hell of a fight.”

“Hell of a fight,” Nichale echoed.

Hjalmar looked away, back to where Geralt and the others were gathering around Halbjorn. There was a desperation in the way his father moved, in the terse way he spoke to everyone who wasn't his dying son.

“I should go talk to my da,” he murmured. “Something's happenin'.”

Nic nodded in full understanding.

The surprise came after, when Hjalmar tipped his chin up again and leaned in for the quickest of kisses, stolen when everyone was looking away, distracted by tragedy. Then, he pulled away and moved over to stand by his father, just as broad and just as severe as Crach himself in this situation.

When Nic savored the kiss, his lips tasted of the blood Hjalmar left behind. It lingered on his tongue and on his teeth, finding a home at the back of his throat where it sat beside his grief.

He held Starshot close to his side and watched as a pool of blood spread out from beneath the fallen bear right in front of him, turning the stones shiny and black and filling the air with its scent. Arrows stuck out from its chest and its shoulder, like flies on the back of a horse. A sword brought the creature down – a sword made of silver.

Nic gritted his teeth in a grimace as he heard Holger Blackhand let out a howl so harrowing that it could spook a ghost.

If he was going to be any use to Hjalmar, he had to sharpen himself into a blade of silver rather than the elm he held in his hand.

If he was going to be someone worthy of stories, he would have to change.


End file.
